the one word that will protect you
by theotherthompson
Summary: "What?" He says, straightening. "What do you mean you've got a heart disease?" Harry glares, and Ron winces, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. Right. Insensitive. HPRW. Oneshot.


**AN:** Story for the Quidditch League, using the prompts _accept, St. Mungo's_ and the quote _"If you look for imperfections, you'll find them"_ by Jose Enincas. (Prompts 2, 3, and 7 respectively.) This is a bit of an AU, in that the war didn't completely stop with Voldemort's death. And that I am totally ignoring the epilogue. The pairing is Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, or HPRW, whichever floats your boat.

As a side note, the title of this fic comes from the poem "Variations on the Word Sleep" by Margaret Atwood. If you haven't already, I definitely recommend reading it after reading this story.

(Fun fact! Dean originally was looking for a packet of cigarettes, but since this needs to be rated T_ and_ under 3k, I cut it out. Also, kept eating my linebreaks, which was very frustrating.)

Total word count: 2, 811. (Writing this story under 3k was really hard for some reason.)

* * *

On a Friday afternoon, the Aurors raid what they believe is the last of the Death Eater hideouts on mainland Britain. They're hoping to find at least one of the few Inner Circle members still on the run, but they're expecting to get in a battle fierce enough to rival the the one that occurred when the Light took back the Ministry, in the latter days of the war.

They get both.

"Bloody hell!" Ron curses, diving behind the ruined wall of a building that might have been a hut originally, but now looks like the exploded shell of some wooden structure. A distinct possibility, especially considering the _Reducto_ that blasts off a corner of the wall that's really just a fence now. Ron covers his face to shield it from debris, ears ringing. He feels rather than sees or hears his partner come up and crouch behind the wall-fence. "Why can't they just give up already!" He shouts.

His partner, Dean, grunts, peering around the edge of their shelter and ducking back into its safety when a sickly yellow spell scorches the wood only two inches away from his nose.

"If I knew what kind of crap I would've had to deal with, I would've just become a - a librarian or something," Dean gripes.

Ron snorts, rolling his eyes. He summons some decently sized pieces of rubble and transfigures them together into a crude, somewhat misshapen human-shaped dummy.

"As if you'd ever willingly pick up a book," Ron retorts, then says as Dean opens his mouth to reply, "On three."

"Why do I always have to do the dangerous bit?" Dean whines, but gets ready to vault over the wall, body tense like one of the coiled springs Ron's dad likes to play with. Ron wonders if Harry has to deal with Bones constantly running her mouth off. Probably not. They got along far too well for Ron's comfort.

"One," Ron says, floating the dummy up wordlessly. "Two." He coils his wand arm back, just as Dean readies his wand. "Three!" Ron flings out his wand arm to the side, watching with some satisfaction as the dummy is sent flying out of the cramped safety. Almost immediately, a _Diffindo_ cuts it across the chest with an aggressive flash of light.

At the same time that happens, Dean jumps over the wall, flinging spell after spell at the Death Eater that had popped out of his hidey-hole to tear apart the dummy.

Ron jumps after him, deflecting a few vibrantly coloured spells sent Dean's way. A few minutes later and the Death Eater is taken down with a stunner from Dean. Ron binds the guy with a body-bind curse just in case.

Their section of the Death Eater outpost in some abandoned village west of the town Bedale is oddly quiet. The noises of battle as Ron knows it - the names of spells shouted, blasts, fire, air whistling - have become muted as the battle winds down. There's more shouts from other Aurors about healers and headcounts than rapid spellfire.

"What should we do with this fellow?" Dean asks, digging into the pocket of his robe in search of something. He nudges the Death Eater they just captured with the toe of his boot.

Ron shrugs. "We'll have to take him with us to the checkpoint," he says as he inspects the shallow cut he received on his outer thigh during the fight. It's bleeding sluggishly and stings, but it doesn't look too bad. Maybe a blood-replenishing potion, a trip to the healers, and he'd be fine again.

Ron straightens. "Right, levitate the guy and we'll say hello to Commander Marlow."

"You just want to see if Potter's okay," Dean accuses, finally fishing out the object he was looking for. It's a packet of mints.

"It's a full-time job," Ron says, not exactly denying it. Dean makes a face that Ron isn't sure is because of the mints or what Ron said, but he flicks his wand in the man's direction not a moment later, levitating him carelessly.

Ron follows after Dean back to the checkpoint, taking time to banter with his partner but keeping an eye on their surroundings all the same. The whole place looks completely wrecked, except for the building the Aurors secured before the battle escalated. The two-story building looks scorched, but fine when compared to the wreckage surrounding it; a juxtaposition of creation and ruins.

There's a few people coming into the building now, carrying people or levitating them. Some Aurors are lined up outside for debriefing before being sent in groups to do the final sweeps of the place.

One of the Aurors spots them coming in and runs up.

"Sir!" She says. "I was ordered to tell you to head to St. Mungo's."

"St. Mungo's?" Ron parrots, glancing down at his leg. "Look, my leg isn't that bad off -"

She shakes her head. "Not because of that, sir." She hesitates, looking nervous and pale underneath the dirt caked onto her face.

"Alright, Ebbett, spit it out," Dean says with a scowl.

"It's Potter, sir." She says, not seeming to notice the way Ron freezes and Dean sucks in a sharp breath. "He, ah, had a heart attack, I think." She pauses, as if finally taking note of the tense atmosphere. She continues, but her voice is smaller, cautious. "He's in St. Mungo's. Emergency ward."

Ron curses.

* * *

It's a Saturday morning when Harry is up again. He tugs at his hospital gown and reassures people that he's _perfectly fine now, honest, the healers found out what was wrong and helped._

Ron's lips thin in a flat, white line when he hears Harry repeat it for a third time. It's a habit that he picked up from Professor McGonagall.

"Hey," Ron says, waiting until Harry looks up at him before continuing. "What did the healers say?"

Harry gives him an insincere smile, shaking his head. "Really, I'm fine now," he says. He adjusts his glasses - still round and tacky and a bit crooked, even though he could easily buy new ones. Ron is under the impression that Harry is too sentimental to do away with them.

Ron raises an eyebrow - _that,_ he got from Hermione. "You still haven't told me what the healers said." He crosses his arms and leans back into his tiny, plastic chair by Harry's hospital bedside, folding his long limbs with the ease of someone with much practice. He ignores the alarming creak the chair makes.

Harry groans, like he thought his acting had been enough to keep Ron from cottoning on that something was wrong. Harry is a terrible liar, but likes to think he isn't.

"I don't know, okay?" Harry says, face becoming moody. "They're saying I have a - a heart disease, Ron. A heart disease."

This isn't - well, it's not something Ron expected. "_What?_" He says, straightening. "What do you mean you've got a heart disease?"

Harry glares, and Ron winces, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. Right. Insensitive.

He takes a few seconds to calm down, then repeats himself. "A heart disease?" He says weakly.

Harry's glare softens, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose, fingers bumping against his glasses. "It's probably Acute Coronary Syndrome, whatever _that_ is." Harry grumbles, poking at his own chest. It's a few inches off from where his heart is. Harry sighs, "Where's Hermione when you need her?"

"America. Some conference about ley lines." Ron says. Harry shakes his head.

"Nah, that was last month." He says, adjusting the blanket around his legs. "She's there with Luna, giving a speech about magical creature rights."

"Right," Ron says, but it's distant. He's distracted by the thought that Harry's heart isn't as strong as he always thought it was. It's hard to accept.

* * *

"Acute Coronary Syndrome? Yes, I've heard of it," Hermione says that night, head tilting to the side. Perched on top of the only log in Ron's fireplace, Ron reckons it looks like her head's just gonna roll off and out the fireplace.

"It's a heart condition where build up in the arteries hampers the flow of oxygen-rich blood to his heart," she explains Her eyes narrow as she looks at Ron. "Has he been given any medication? Instructions?"

It's three in the bloody morning, and Ron hasn't slept over five hours these past two days. If his head droops any more, he's gonna fall face first into the green, crackling fire. Still, Ron nods instead of passing out.

"Gave him the Concrest potion and told him he can't do any extraneous activities." His fingers drum against the hardwood floor next to where he's kneeling, the wood warm from the fire.

"_Concresco,_" Hermione corrects without hesitation."That's good, he's stable."

Ron gives her a disbelieving look. "How is it a good thing?"

She smiles humourlessly. "It means he's less likely to die." Ron flinches away, but settles back down a moment later.

They're both quiet for a bit until Hermione breaks the silence. "When is he being released from the hospital?" She asks, flicking her eyes back to Ron.

Ron sits back on his socked heels. "He's under observation right now, so a few days, maybe."

Hermione sighs, closing her eyes and hanging her head. Like this, Ron can almost see the discolouration under her eyes, a darker green than the rest of her face. He imagines he looks about the same.

"Take care of him for me?" She says. With her eyes still closed, she doesn't see the complicated grimace that flashes over Ron's face before a fraction of a second.

"I know," he replies, tapping his finger again on the floor with a blunt nail.

"I mean it, Ron. He needs our support right now," she says flatly. She opens her eyes to give Ron a no-nonsense look, her eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed. Ron is tempted to reach out and smooth out the wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, but doesn't.

"I know," he says instead.

* * *

By Monday, Harry's room at St. Mungo's looks more like a flower shop than a place to recover. Every available surface has a vase full of flowers on it, and some are crowded along the walls. Ron definitely does not remember the room having this many shelves, if at all.

All the flowers are vibrantly coloured, as if to ward off any kind of gloom. Yellows and reds and oranges. Blues and pinks and one weirdly shaped flower that looks like a bleeding heart that Ron thinks may or may not have come from the Lovegoods.

Ron closes the door behind him and picks his way over to Harry's bed, the only clear space in this riot of colours. Harry turns away from the window to blink at Ron, his lips twitching up into a tense smile.

"Hey mate," Ron says, when he finally reaches the foot of the bed. He breathes in deeply, shrugging out of his Auror robes. After a call down to muggle London and breathing in the heavy scent of pollutants there, the room smells strange, but fresh. The way wet plants do in April.

"Hey," Harry says, a moment too late, as Ron is about to drape his robes over the back of the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Ron pauses, turning to look at Harry properly. In the yellow of the setting sun that shines through the window next to them, the angles of Harry's face look less sharp, but not quite soft, and his eyes look brighter. Vivid green pools framed by short eyelashes, and round, wire glasses. Ron would probably appreciate the sight more if he couldn't see the way Harry struggled to keep his face neutrally blank, or how rigidly he held his shoulders.

"Hey," Ron says, tossing the robe onto the seat and carefully placing a hand on Harry's knee, equally careful not to pause too long over how big his hands look on Harry. "You don't have to pretend you're okay if you're not. Not with me."

Harry blinks up at him as he parses that statement. Ron can see the moment where it clicks in the way Harry's eyebrows furrow together, a deep wrinkle appearing between them.

"I'm not pretending," he says unconvincingly. His hands are curled into such a tight fist that the knuckles are white. Harry must have forgotten to hide them underneath the blanket so Ron wouldn't see.

Ron is tempted to reach out and smooth out the wrinkle between Harry's furrowed eyebrows, so he does, rubbing at it gently with a thumb until it fades, then dragging his thumb to the side, following the natural arch of Harry's eyebrow. He leaves his hand on Harry's face, thumb pressing lightly on Harry's temple, and waits.

They're silent for five minutes, ten minutes, before Harry breaks, sighing so explosively that his whole body moves with it. He slumps over, his shoulders rounding in defeat. The movement dislodges Ron's hand. It feels awkward to have it hang by his side uselessly.

"I'll be fine," Harry says eventually, after another five minutes have passed. "But I - they said I'll have to resign. From being an Auror."

Harry glances at Ron, peering at him unhappily before looking back down at the thin hospital sheets covering his lower body. "It's too much of a strain on my heart, apparently."

"But you'll live?" Ron asks, because this is the important part, no matter what Harry made himself believe.

"I - what?" Harry says, utterly confused.

Ron almost smiles as he takes one of Harry's hands in his own, holding on tightly. He's gratified when Harry squeezes back.

"You'll live," Ron repeats, something in him easing when Harry nods. "We'll be fine, then."

"How? Everything's going to change," Harry says incredulously. He waves his free hand around, as if to he's trying to gesture at what he means. The hand flops back onto the bed again.

Ron shrugs. "'If you search for imperfections, you'll find them.'" Ron says philosophically. "Jose something said that."

"You got that from Hermione," Harry accuses, which is true, but it doesn't really matter.

"We'll be fine," Ron says firmly. He squeezes Harry's hand once again.

* * *

Monday night, Ron's talking to Hermione again. Ron realises, sometime in between her trying to explain depression and Ron telling her he doesn't understand serotonin, that counting today he and Hermione broke up eight months ago.

This is one of the things that Ron never thought he'd experience. At seventeen he thought he'd spend the rest of his life with her. At twenty-one, he thinks that he still will, just not the way he originally thought.

It was hard to accept at first. That he was no longer in love with Hermione. But pretending otherwise when Hermione could tell had only strained their relationship, and it wasn't fair to either of them. Especially when Ron kept finding his eyes drifting to Harry.

At least they were still best friends.

"- Ron? Ronald?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," Ron says into the phone. As strange as using muggle technology is, there's something easier about not being able to see Hermione's face, or her not seeing his.

"You're really not," Hermione says. "You're off in your own head again."

"Am not," Ron denies, enjoying hearing Hermione's laugh. Some things never change.

"I have to go now. Remember, Harry's going home tomorrow. Say hello to him for me when you next see him?" Ron twitches at the reminder, his gut twisting as he thought about Harry illuminated by the sunset, surrounded by colour.

"Sure thing," Ron says, and she hangs up.

Ron sighs, flopping down onto the couch in his dark apartment. The phone dangles from his hand by its cord, an inch away from adding another dent in the floor. Hermione's voice is still ringing in his ear, but behind his closed eyes he sees vivid green, a thin smile. He thinks quietly about what he wants.

Some things never change, he thinks when he finally makes a decision, but maybe it's time they do.

* * *

On a Wednesday morning, Ron waits outside of Grimmauld Place, sitting on the step of the front door. He picks at the seams of his jeans mindlessly, tapping out a rhythm with his feet.

He's supposed to be working today, but he took the day off, braving Dean's pointed remarks and the knowing look from his boss. It was worth it, he reasons. Or it would be.

There's a loud crack that Ron recognises as Apparition, and Harry appears a few feet away. He catches sight of Ron and gapes unattractively. "I thought you had work today?" He says, taking a step closer.

Ron stands up so that he's looking down at Harry rather than the other way around.

"Hey," Ron says, smiling widely.


End file.
